


Operation: Armadillo

by startrekkingaroundasgard



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adult Themes, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Clint Barton-centric, Dare, Day Off, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Crack, Rescue Missions, based on the adventures of my sister and her boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25685983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startrekkingaroundasgard/pseuds/startrekkingaroundasgard
Summary: On a drunken night together, Clint tries to show off his aim to the reader. Unfortunately, it doesn’t quite go to plan and the pair must launch a rescue to collect the reader’s toy armadillo.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BarnesnMrNoble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarnesnMrNoble/gifts).



After a few drinks, the line between terrible ideas and absolutely incredible ones begins to blur. What could be easily dismissed with a sober mind seemed tremendous fun with a few shots in your system and the obvious, sometimes criminal, consequences of your actions were a distant worry. You had discovered this the hard way many times but, despite three years of drinking with your bizarre neighbour Clint, were nowhere near actually learning a lesson from your experiences. 

Tonight was no exception. 

It had started out a regular evening. Stretched out on the rooftop, satellites and aeroplanes blinking across the night sky, you and Clint drowned the hardships of the day with some truly excellent Russian vodka. Your problems differed slightly - you were struggling with an annoying colleague while he had failed to capture a guy that then went on to blow up fifty innocent bystanders - but great vodka numbed all kinds of pain. 

After a few shots, the weight lifted from your chest and you felt confident enough to draw Clint into a light conversation. You knew all sorts of strange things about the Avenger because you fiercely refused to speak about anything of real importance. Politics, wars, aliens, work… They were all taboo. His favourite kinds of food, that strange new Netflix gameshow and dogs, however, were much more preferable topics of conversation. 

Once the first bottle was empty, more interesting and intimate stories came to light. Exes and wild sexual experimentations, fantasies that you barely dared to consider during the day and your craziest moments were all fair game. Ninety percent of the tales you each spun weren't true but that was what made it fun; puzzling through the false memories in order to find a grain of reality, a nugget of the man hidden so far behind a mask that he'd almost been forgotten entirely. 

"I had this girlfriend, Jello," you said, tracking a helicopter across the dark night sky. You liked how the lights flickered in time to the loud electro swing blaring from downstairs, almost as if it was dancing for you. The thought made you smile. "She bought me an armadillo."

"No way." Clint shook his head, rolling over onto his side to get a better look at you. Coordination impaired, he fell into the gap between the cushions underneath you; the apartment block roof wasn't all that comfortable but recently he'd started bringing out tattered pillows (and what you suspected was a dog bed) in order to create a little padded area for your evening drinking sessions. 

In the process of manoeuvring back onto the makeshift bed, Clint clawed at your jacket with such strength that he split one of the seams. Swearing colourfully enough to make a sailor blush, he pulled a few notes from his own pocket and shoved them at you. "To pay for a new one."

You knew better than to argue with him but resolved to slip the money back into his pocket when he wasn't looking later. Even in your tipsy state you knew that the tear wasn't that bad, anyway. With a little concentration you could probably sew it up. 

"I wanna see your armadillo."

It took your brain a few seconds to recall what you'd been talking about before. Clint's sense of humour was strange enough that an armadillo could have meant literally anything. When you remembered mentioning Jello, you grabbed Clint's hand and led him downstairs to your apartment. He berated you for leaving the key over the door frame like he did every time but shoved it back in its place nonetheless. 

He hovered at the threshold of your apartment as you searched for the creature, ignoring your invitation to enter. Clint did that, every time. You weren't sure why. He was your friend and probably knew more about you than anyone else in the world. If he thought that keeping a physical distance would keep you safe somehow then he was just stupid. You'd know from that first moment that getting close to Clint was dangerous. One way or another, be it death or heart break, this friendship would end badly but the archer had proven over and over again that he was worth the risk. 

Thankfully, it only took you a few more minutes to locate the armadillo. You freed it from behind the sofa and tossed it across the room to Clint. His reflexes were incredible, even impaired, and he caught the teddy one handed. Turning it around to study the cute, dusty plush, he asked, "Why on Earth did Jello buy you this? Also what sort of name is Jello?"

"She was from a rich family," you said, hoping that answered at least one of his questions. Clint launched the teddy back at you, his rich laugh filling the otherwise quiet room as you ducked out of its path. You turned to find the armadillo in the paper waste bin and scowled. Show off. "You think you're such a good shot, don't you?"

Clint folded his arms over his chest, thick muscles testing the limit of stretchiness of his t-shirt. "Yeah, I do, actually."

"Oh, really? You reckon you could toss this to me from the street?"

He huffed, unimpressed. "Easy."

"I'm eight floors up and the street is at an angle. No way you're gonna get it through the window."

For the first time ever, Clint stepped into your apartment. Possessed by arrogant confidence, bolstered by the strength of Russian vodka, he plucked the armadillo from your hands. Face inches from yours, he breathed, "Just watch me." 

Holding the poor creature by its tale, he sauntered out of your home. His footsteps were heavy against the metal stairwell but grew quieter until you were left alone in the silence of your apartment. Wasting no time, you opened your window and sat on the ledge, legs swinging over the edge of the building. 

The cool, midnight wind gently caressed your cheeks, pleasant against the thick humidity of the night. Familiar sirens drifted in from far away, drowned out by the heavy bass from nearby clubs but there was something peaceful about the noise. Cities never slept - New York especially - and, against reason, that brought you a deep comfort. 

Clint soon appeared round the corner, his muscular figure little more than a dark blob beneath the street lamp. Moments later a smaller blob was flying straight at you. Your armadillo grew closer and you stretched out a hand, ready to reluctantly admit that Clint was perhaps the coolest guy you knew. 

However, the armadillo had other ideas. You misjudged where it was heading and your hand closed around thin air. The plush hit the wall beside your window and, before you could catch the poor creature, gravity sunk its evil claws in and started to drag him down. Only, not in a straight line. The teddy bounced off the corner of your neighbours balcony, rolled a few times then finally settled in the centre of the city garden. 

"Did you get it?" Clint asked, buzzing with excitement. 

"Not quite…" 

You reached around and grabbed Clint by the edge of his t-shirt, pulling him closer. He pressed his chest against your back, arms naturally slipping around your waist to stop you from falling. He followed your gaze and groaned when he spotted the armadillo. "Well, that's not ideal."

"I told you that you wouldn't make the shot. We should have made a bet. I could've made a killing from you."

"Oh, shut up," Clint said and shoved you lightly. You screamed but he would never have let you fall. Resting his chin on your shoulder, already calculating potential rescue routes, he asked, "Do you want your armadillo back or not?"

"Of course I do."

"I reckon I can reach the balcony from here."

A few questionable mental calculations suggested that Clint could not, in fact, reach the balcony from your window. The angle was too slim, the distance too far. And if, by some insane luck, he did manage to leap onto it, catch the rails and haul himself over, the chances of him making it back were slim (if he jumped back, he would certainly fall and if he tried to walk through your reclusive neighbour's house then he'd probably get shot). 

No, you couldn't let him do that. You couldn't watch him injure himself over something as silly as an armadillo. What would the Avengers do if they found out their team member had broken a leg - in the best scenario! - after a drunken dare gone wrong? You didn't want to risk finding out. 

Leaning back against his chest, you shook your head and said, "You are not doing that. Let's just pin a note on the door and ask the person that lives there to return it tomorrow."

"Look at you with your good ideas."

"You know what, Clint, you can go jump out that window after all."

He squeezed you tightly then stepped back. Yanking your arm, Clint pulled you off the window ledge, his hands on your hips keeping you balanced. Your heart beat loudly in your ears, your skin tingled where he touched you through your clothes. The floor rippled beneath your feet, alcohol and proximity to Clint muddling your senses, but he held you steady. 

Head fuzzy, you swallowed deeply and breathed, "There's paper in the printer. Pens on the table."

"My handwriting's shit. You'd better do it."

"You gotta let go of me, first." 

Clint dropped his hands but you could still feel the imprint of his hands on your body as you crossed the room. In your neatest handwriting, aware of Clint not so subtly following each and every stroke of the pen, you wrote: __

_Dear 7B,_

_We accidentally threw our armadillo on your balcony. Please return him to apartment 8A. We miss him._

_Thanks!_

"Draw a smiley face," Clint said. He plucked the pen from your hand and scribbled at the bottom of the page. Unfortunately, his little doodle looked about as far from a face as possible and ended up more like a terrifying alien shit. No matter how he tried to fix it, the smiling thing only got more scary until he eventually just tore the corner off. Flicking the crumpled paper into the bin, he grumbled, "Don't say a word."

"I wouldn't dream of it. I'll go hang it up and I'll let you go know what they say tomorrow?" Clint nodded. You surprised him by drawing him into a hug, lingering a moment before you broke away. Gaze fixed on the ground, you muttered, "Goodnight, Clint."

"Night, sugar." He hovered awkwardly, leaning in as if he was about to kiss you before suddenly deciding against it. Turning on his heels, he waved goodbye before slipping out of your apartment without another word.


	2. Chapter 2

“Better?” Clint asked, spreading his arms to show off his clothes. They were nothing special - just an old pair of cargo shorts and a purple t-shirt with white paw prints up the side (not an intentional design; Lucky had walked through some paint and left the neat trail across the shirt) - but it was infinitely less distracting than before. 

Perched on the arm of his sofa, you were incredibly aware of how unstable the old thing was. Each tiny movement elicited a disconcerting squeak from the springs below and the footings scratched across the wooden floor in a way that was absolutely not normal. When Clint jumped onto the centre cushion, the entire thing shuddered and folded in on itself, a cloud of dust and who knows what else shooting into the air.

You leapt away before you could fall into the pit but Clint was not so lucky. Offering your hand to pull him from the ruins of what used to be a sofa, you said, “Much. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbled, tussling his blond hair as if that was the biggest of his concerns. “And why are you going on about it? Everyone answers the door in their boxers. Coffee?”

“No, they don’t.” You brushed the dust from his shoulders, truly and deeply amazed that Clint was able to function in any way at all. You also envied his calm under stress; his sofa had essentially imploded and his solution was to simply fix his hair and have a drink. You supposed this was nothing compared to fighting aliens but still. Clint Barton was a marvel.

Following him to the kitchen unit, which was in dire need of some love and attention (not only was the surface cracked and chipped, there were arrows sticking out of the corner cupboards and plates with entirely undiscovered species of mould growing on them), you pointed out, “And even if people did answer the door in their boxers, at least they would be wearing something. You answered the door with no clothes on at all!" 

"Big deal. It’s not like you didn’t enjoy the show.” Clint glanced up from his prized coffee machine - the only appliance in his entire home which showed any signs of regular upkeep - and a grin spread across his face. “You actually did, didn’t you?”

God, the room was getting warm. Tracing your fingers over the nearest dent in the counter top, fascinated by the spiralling cracks around it, you mumbled, “So what if I appreciate the male form? Regardless of my reaction, you should never have opened it without pants on!”

“Oh, alright. I get it. I’ll try to remember pants next time, okay?” Sliding a cup of steaming coffee over to you, somehow downing the contents of his own in one huge gulp, Clint asked, “Anyway, what you doing up so early?" 

"For one, it’s gone noon. For another, I got a reply about my armadillo.”

Clint’s eyes lit up, although whether that was in relation to your plush toy or the sudden surge of 100% pure caffeine in his veins you couldn’t say. “What did they say? Are they holding it hostage? Demanding ransom of some kind?”

You covered the top of his mug with your hand, signalling that one extra strength shot of caffeine was enough for today. Naturally, he disagreed and helped himself to your drink - under other circumstances you might have fought back but, what with the slightly crazed look in his eyes that suggested one cute was in fact nowhere near enough, you smiled tightly and let him pour the poison down his throat. __

_From your pocket you pulled a neatly folded note which read in light green pen: Dear 8A, Mrs Smith moved out three months ago so there is no one to return your armadillo. Good luck with his rescue. 7F  
_  
While Clint read the message, you added, “I also remembered this morning while I was brushing my teeth that you actually own this building. Do you have a key for the flat?”

“Nope. Well. I mean, I probably do but I’ve no idea where the spare keys are. You may have noticed I’m a pretty crap building manager.”

That wasn’t true at all. Everyone in the building loved having Clint as their landlord. It wasn’t just that his presence kept you all safe from the local unsavoury types. Unlike the last people to own the building (how Clint had won the building from the Russian Mafia was still a point of frequent conversation between the residents), he was a right laugh to be around. The Avenger was fair and always tried his best to solve whatever bizarre problems the unusually built apartment block threw up. 

He never chased people for rent and the rates were lower than anywhere else in Brooklyn but that wasn’t why everyone loved him. It was Clint’s weekly BBQs on the roof that brought you all together, his willingness to babysit without any notice. It was the way he sat with Johnny on the stairs after a panic attack and calmed him down. It was the flowers he brought Shannon after her boyfriend left her. All of the little things he did that made him an incredible person and landlord, that reignited your belief in humanity. 

Wishing you could tell him any of that but unable to find the words, you sighed and asked instead: “Can we just break down the door?”

“I mean, we could but then I’d have to get someone in to fix it and that never goes well because they always turn out to be some kind of hitman or a complete cowboy. You know, once, I had an actual cowboy come do the drains for the building? He had a huge hat and spurs and everything. Great thighs but a truly shit plumber.” His gaze grew distant as a light brush spread across his cheeks. “Uh, what were we talking about?”

“Rescuing my armadillo. I have a plan but it requires your supposedly expert shot to work.”

“Supposedly?”

You shrugged. It was his ‘infallible’ aim that had gotten you into this mess in the first place. After all, if he’d actually managed to get the plush through your window as he swore he would be able to then no wild extraction plan would be necessary. However, what was done was done and you decided to linger on it no longer. 

Leading him back to your apartment, you gestured to the equipment on your table. However, calling it equipment might have been a bit of an exaggeration given the rushed assembly. What you described as an ACU - _armadillo collection unit_ \- was in fact just a cardboard box with some rope attached to it. 

Met with both amusement and despair, you poked Clint in the shoulder and said, “Be nice or shut your mouth. I’d like to see you try to make something better with what I’ve got lying around.”

“Impossible. It’s great.”

“That’s what I thought you were going to say. Now, I figure if we can toss this over to the balcony, with a little bit of shimmying and a lot of luck then we can scoop the poor guy up and bring it home safely. Simple enough right?”

“Right.”

Like so many things, it began well. While you held on to the ropes, Clint tossed the box down onto 7B’s balcony. He redeemed himself for yesterday’s drunken accident with a perfect shot; the cardboard rescue unit landed perfectly in the centre of the balcony. Only a few feet away from your armadillo, you pulled on the ropes and tried to move the box into place. 

Unfortunately, that was about as well as the rescue attempt went. Your first few adjustments achieved nothing. You either pulled the box too far to the left or knocked the plush even further away. Clint’s luck was no better and, even when the neighbours began to emerge, cheer and shout useful advice like “a little bit nearer” or “you’ve missed it”, it soon became clear that this would not work. 

Plan B, to just shoot the poor thing with a harpoon arrow, was provided by Clint but quickly dismissed after a quick public debate by everyone watching. (There were, at this point, now almost thirty people watching the debacle.) The conclusion was that the armadillo didn’t deserve to be shot, not even by something harmless and unlikely to leave a mark. It had already been through too much - first being abandoned behind a sofa, then taken out into the cold, launched like a grenade into the air and left alone overnight in the open. 

So, Plan C was enacted: lasso its tail and pull it back to your window. Once again, it proved to be easier said than done. In the worst game of hook a duck ever, you tried multiple times to catch the plush animal with the rope but failed each time. As your body began to ache, the stress and strain of holding yourself out the window for so long taking a toll, Clint took over with as little success. 

Up and down the building, even across the road, neighbours you’d never spoken to set up chairs by their windows to watch the free entertainment. Some even pulled out drinks and snacks, making a full event of your struggles. It would be hilariously sad if you weren’t so invested in rescuing the inanimate creature. 

Resting your hand on Clint’s forearm, the muscles tight in steady concentration beneath your touch, you sighed, “Maybe we should just give up. It’s been almost an hour and we’ve only made it worse. Let’s just harpoon the bastard or kick down the door.”

“I will not admit defeat!” Clint hollered, rousing a nervous yet supportive cheer from the onlookers. He jumped up onto your windowsill and planted his feet firmly on the thin ledge. Without thought, you wrapped your arms around his legs, able to picture in horrifying detail how badly this could end. 

With more freedom of motion, the Avenger swung the rope round and launched it at the balcony. The lasso landed on the armadillo’s tail, almost hooked around the neck. To a growing chorus of excited screams and useless advice, Clint shimmied the rope, carefully tightening it around the plush. 

Too much, too soon, the rope slipped from the body but, by some miracle, latched on to the widest part of the tail. Wasting no time, Clint tugged it back, sacrificing care for pure strength and speed. The armadillo left the ground, caught on the edge of the balcony, so close to freedom. 

Just then, the rope lost its hold. Everything happened in slow motion. The rope swung away like a vine in a forest, hanging limply from Clint’s hand while the armadillo fell, tumbling over the edge and plummeting down to the street below. 

Rapturous applause burst out, filling the street with a celebration unlike any other. Strangers raised their glasses to your success, families danced and lovers embraced as the plush landed unceremoniously in the dumpster beneath your apartment. It was the sweetest victory you had ever tasted. 

You turned to Clint to celebrate only to find him halfway out the door, racing down to collect the plush from its landing site before some deviant decided to steal it away. When he returned a few minutes later, you were sure to close the window before he tossed it your way. 

Setting the armadillo on the table, you threw your arms around Clint and held him in a tight hug. Pride shone from his face, lighting up his expression with the brightness of a thousand suns. Your fearless, dedicated hero, saving the day once again. Not all heroes wear capes, indeed. 

He pulled back and grinned. “Fun as that was, I’m gonna head back to bed now. It’s exhausting being so awesome.”

“I’m sure it is.” You pressed a light kiss to his cheek and asked, “See you the same time tonight on the roof?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, sugar.”


End file.
